I Have Known Pain
by Jedi Librarian
Summary: Siroc, from the PAX series Young Blades, takes a week-long holiday to visit a painful part of his past...a lonely grave, memories from long ago. One-shot.


**"I Have Known Pain"**

_By Jedi Blu, Lady at Large_

In answer to the Fan Fic Challenge, posted by Callie at the YoungBlades"dot"net Forum, regarding Siroc and Ramon 'missing in action' during the Young Blades Episode "The Exile." While Ramon's whereabouts are explained, briefly, this is strictly Siroc's story. One shot.

_Standard Disclaimer Applies._

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Ramon had tried a great deal to get me to go with him on our week of freedom, our week away from our post as cadets at the Musketeer academy and headquarters. He complained that I was always so moody after my time off and far too quiet. He thought I needed the fun that the fair he was attending would provide. My response to his pleas had been simple; I told my friend I had somewhere else I had to be, an appointment to keep. Sensing my reluctance, the poet backed off and we took different roads the morning of our release. 

Down the road to the south I went, on a three day journey...or a three day pilgrimage, depending upon how you looked at such things. For myself, it was a journey that was always difficult to begin and get through but I had always taken it seriously.

My destination was a small, remote spot of wilderness. The three days it took to get there gave me time to meditate and prepare myself. I was able to concentrate more on my thoughts than on my duties, and I was surrounded by the beautiful green of the French countryside I had always loved. Yes, I was a man with an inventive mind, I worked with machines and strove to improve mankind's lot in life...but the beauty of trees, of wind, of an open sky still called to me.

When I was a boy, in the few moments I had away from my duties, I was always out in the woods near the Master's home. I would play within the trees, twining together branches to make baskets, sling-shots, nests within the trees for myself to fly to...for me to dream in. Sometimes when I was gone for too long I would receive a beating upon my return...but it was worth it. Those precious escapes, those moments of solitude when my mind could be fully occupied however I wished it to be, were the shining moments in my past.

As I grew older I was allowed to enter the forest less and less; I was more likely to run away as I aged, and more likely to succeed in doing so.

If only my master had known what held me back, he would not have let me—_his_ brilliant mind—escape. He wasn't as smart as I was, he never did understand me. He never understood that the only thing keeping me still was another little slave.

Slavery was not easy on me, despite the teachings of the Catholic Church; life was cold, hard, and brutal for those living beneath the notice of the church. No one worried over the education or saving of my soul, slaves didn't have souls. The Master, when he learned of my inventiveness, strove to educate me in the mechanics of things so that I would invent for him...make him rich.

When night came on my journey, during this week which Ramon called 'seven days of heaven,' I did not sleep at inns, though I could afford to. I even stayed clear of houses and barns. I didn't want to interact with people; I wanted to be left alone.

I had always been a loner; even the first months of my time at the academy had found me habitually seeking a dark corner as far away from the other cadets as possible. They left me alone, never teasing or tormenting me for my chosen position as the recluse. No one really seemed to care.

Then Captain Duvall caught me sketching one night, when I should have been on watch duty in the stables. He had taken away the small composition book I had purchased—I had scrimped for months to earn the money to own that little book, and I had all ready half-filled it with drawings of my thoughts. Within those pages were new rapier designs, a contraption I worked out to bring hot water directly from the kitchens to the bathing chambers, a new bellows for the black smith, an axle design, chemical components which I believed would create marvelous explosions when combined with only a little gunpowder, even a design for a smaller, more accurate musket which I just _knew_ would work perfectly.

Duvall had looked at my book in amazement. "Could you really make these things?" he asked.

"If I had the time, and the equipment," I, as a gangly and awkward teenager, managed to tell him. He was an incredible man, and had won my respect almost instantly. He did not care about my past, and never asked about it, but had accepted me into the academy when I proved I was able to read, write, ride, and follow orders. Of course, he had also threatened to boot me out should I ever betray his complete trust in me.

My captain found a room for me, lesser used and just down the hall from the common room, where a blacksmith forge was located. Years before the expansion of the academy the room itself _HAD_ been the blacksmith's domain, which had been relocated to a shed off the stables only scant years before. It was the perfect room; it became my study, my laboratory, and my haven.

I will never forget the day I met d'Artagnan, _the_ d'Artagnan, and his son by the same name. The Legend came to deposit his son into Duvall's care, determined to see the boy 'made into' something. Duvall insisted on offering the father and son a tour of the academy, to show them all the improvements made since the elder d'Artagnan's time. One of these improvements, to my surprise, was my laboratory.

D'Artagnan senior looked at my inventions and models with keen interest and regarded me with such respect that I forgot to tremble and be in awe of him. He asked me questions, he tried to understand my answers, he grinned at me in such an approving way that my heart wanted to burst for pride. Then he had turned to his son.

"This young man, this Siroc, has a brilliant mind. You would do well to study with him, he could teach you a lot."

Young d'Artagnan had nodded, though I never expected him to take his father's words as seriously as he did. He was, to my surprise, a very obedient and doting son. He admired and respected his father as much as any boy would the Great d'Artagnan—more so, because of their bond as father and son. He dogged my heels constantly, always asking me questions and listening closely to my explanations. He didn't understand everything, but he tried.

D'Artagnan was all ready a great swordsman when he came to the academy, and things only improved for him under the tutelage of so many Musketeer officers. I could fair well enough with a sword, though Duvall himself stated I was more useful with my mind than my blade.

I found that I enjoyed d'Artagnan's inquisitive company, we eventually became friends. He sparred with me often, making me think he only wanted to practice his own skills with the blade. Soon, though, our practice together proved to be more for my benefit. On d'Artagnan's first assignment he requested me as his companion—I had never been out on my own assignment, only given assignments and tasks to work around with my mechanical mind. Duvall didn't want to send me—it was an easy trip, running a message from Paris to Marseilles, guarding against bandits. D'Artagnan insisted Duvall test my skills with the blade to prove that I was more than capable of defending myself and the message on the journey. I was able to do just that, and my friendship with d'Artagnan was sealed.

Although, I thought to myself one evening as I traveled, of late d'Artagnan had been greatly distracted from our friendship. He was always worrying over Jacques, which I did not mind, the lad needed someone to worry over him. But it puzzled me. Why _was_ d'Artagnan always so eager to jump to the young man's defense? Accompany him on missions? It was a puzzle—normally my friend would have done all he could to torment the recruit; d'Artagnan was arrogant and self-assured by nature, moved quicker to action than to thought, though he had a good head on his shoulders. He enjoyed making life difficult for the younger cadets, but all that had stopped shortly after Jacques's arrival.

Consequently, Ramon and I found ourselves without our number three very often. We didn't mind, we had always been good friends as well. Ramon was greatly my opposite from the beginning, yet we had some similarities. We both had our minds in the clouds, we're both dreamers, we both wished to make the world a better place for mankind. Ramon accomplished this through his words-he was a poet, but also an eloquent speaker. Once he might've earned a political position in the church, but he had taken up a rapier and the uniform of a Musketeer when his family had thrown him from their estate. Ramon was a talker...and once he got someone listening, he could convince them up was down and they should be wearing shoes on their heads.

At the end of the third day of my journey I found myself in a quiet wooded area, devoid of people, the wildlife was mostly silent now as the animals bedded down for the night. Despite the fading light I was able to find my way, effortlessly, through the trees and across a small brook.

An oak tree stood, scarred by lighting but still alive, over a quiet patch of soft grasses. If one looked carefully, one would see a slight rise in the ground where a mound of dirt had been worn down over the years. Ten years, to be precise. There was nothing to mark this mound as anything significant, except for a single, oddly black stone closer to the tree than the mound.

I hobbled my horse, allowing it to graze close by. I swept off my hat and took a deep breath before stepping underneath the sheltering branches of the old, grizzled oak. I laid my hand on the mound of grass-covered dirt and closed me eyes. I was on my knees, my shoulders stooped with the great weight of my past.

I whispered the name quietly, "Sienna." Tears filled my eyes before I could even think or feel anything more. "Sister," I whispered.

"I brought you something," I whispered, ignoring the darkness which crept in upon me. I reached into my tunic and pulled out a small leather pouch. My hands, calloused from the sword and the tools I employed in my laboratory, seemed a little too large and awkward to me as I tried to unlace the bag…it was awkward to do so anyway, without the aid of much light and with the knots in the strings good and tight—but I managed at last and I carefully emptied the contents of the pouch into my cupped hand. "Seeds for a garden, just like you always wanted. I thought you might prefer these to the flowers I usually leave you."

I scooped away some of the grassy earth, using the small dagger I carried to dig the little holes, and I deposited the seeds into the ground. My eyes began to burn and I could feel the hot tears begin to roll down my cheeks. I didn't bother to wipe them away; it would be a wasted effort because more tears would only come to replace those which had fallen.

I drew my cloak closer around me and settled myself more comfortably onto the grass. Here, in this abandoned place of my past, was the only member of my family I had ever known. My little sister, also a slave, but she had died still a slave. I had lived, lived and escaped to make the world a better place.

Sienna was only three years younger than I, and she had followed me around everywhere, worshiping the ground I walked on. She never pestered me with questions, but watched me in silent, wide-eyed wonder and listened to me as if she thrived on my words. We looked a lot alike—same dusty-blonde hair, same warm, light-brown eyes, and our expressions were mirrors of each other.

She was only thirteen when she died, just beginning to show the signs of maidenhood. She had begun to blossom like her beloved flowers, gaining height and a rose color in her cheeks, entering the awkward stage of being all legs and arms, but the promise of beauty had been there, lingering in her eyes and her quiet smiles.

But all of it was lost…lost and kept forever from the world that should have welcomed and loved her. She had been ill for some time, working in the home of the Master, while I was kept mostly away from her, studying devices and writings of scatter-brained inventors who never finished what they started. They only sent for me when her sickness had progressed to the point of her being abed, and they did not send for me for compassion—no, I was brought before the Master to be told my own workload would double if my sister died. As it was I had to spend my days running between her old chores and my own, and only my nights could be devoted to nursing my poor little sister.

I had to pilfer candles from the Master's stock, so that I might keep watch over her in the night. I stole herbs and medicines as well, though most of the other servants—indentured servants, not slaves like we were—turned a blind eye when they saw me coming. They could not help us directly unless they wanted punishment, but there were many nights I entered my sister's tiny compartment—a nitch behind one of the broom closets in the Master's vast home—and found an extra blanket left, or a few scraps of extra food which would give her more nourishment than the stale bread and wilted vegetables that were normally a slave's meal.

My sister grew weaker, her breathing became more labored, and the hopeful light in her soft, expressive brown eyes began to dim. Little Sienna soon could not even speak to me, except for a few whispered words when she gathered all her small strength together. I held her hand, I spoke to her through the long nights whether she was asleep or in the fog that encompassed her during her waking hours.

I told her stories about the parents I barely remembered, half-making things up. I didn't care for our parents, whoever they had been, because it was their fault we were slaves. It was because of their beliefs, their outspokenness, that their children were stripped from them and made slaves. It was their fault that, before I was old enough to defend myself and my sister, we had been spit upon by others and told we were going to hell. It was their fault my sister laid dying.

Night now had the forest within its cloak and the air grew colder. I retrieved my blanket and curled up beneath the base of the oak tree. It was not safe for me to build a fire. Though I was a Musketeer now, a freed man though I had fled slavery, it would not prevent the Master's henchmen from taking me before him for revenge. I was very near his lands…very near.

I would spend the following day here, seeing to it that my sister's grave would be preserved until I came again. One day I would bring her a beautiful headstone—I had seen one in Paris with the likeness of an angel resting upon it, and I wanted one just the same for her. It would be expensive, but my beautiful sister needed a monument, she deserved one. I did not want her final resting place to be completely lost within the shadows and brush of the woods.

My heart ached with emptiness as I slept that night; the only person I had ever loved, my sister, had been dead now for nearly five years. She would've been a lovely young woman now, had she lived. Perhaps we both would have escaped and I would be called upon to keep my fellow Musketeers from courting her. What would they have thought of the quiet and kind soul who had been my sister?

Surely they would have loved her.

I still remembered the last time she spoke to me, the night she finally slipped away as I held her. She asked me to pick her up and hold her, like I had when we were both much littler. I held my fragile sister, her form greatly shrunken during her illness, and our tears had both fallen as she whispered, "You're so smart, Siroc." Her breathing was rasping, each time her lungs expanded it pained her. "And handsome. Someone will love you someday." She coughed, the sound tearing up her throat and making me wince. "Will you miss me?" she asked when she regained a little strength, though I could almost feel her fading away from me.

I didn't try to reassure her, we both had stopped pretending she would get well. Most of her body had gone numb, ceasing to even function. Nothing I had done, none of the things I had tried, had helped her at all. She was dying. She knew it. I knew it.

"Yes, Sienna. I will miss you every moment of every day, forever and ever." I kissed her forehead. "I love you."

"I love you, Siroc." Her words were weaker than before, her body grew heavier within my arms. She was leaving me, slowly, painfully. "Siroc…don't stay…."

That was all, those were her last words. I carried her from the house after she had been still for an hour, I wrapped her in the blanket she had spent her last days beneath. In the darkness of the night I carried her to the forest. Slaves, when they died, were burned instead of buried. It was less expensive and less trouble. But not my sister—she would rest beneath the trees, in the only place I had ever known peace.

It took me all night to dig her grave, and even then it was shallower than I would have liked it.

Laying my little sister, my Sienna, within the ground had been so hard. But I must escape, and I was swiftly running short on time to do so. I wanted to die and be buried in that hole with her. But her words…I felt they had been said as much to keep me alive as they had been said to make me run for freedom.

I watered her grave with my tears as I covered it over in soil—and stones to keep scavengers from her still body.

A black stone, scarred by the same lightning as the old oak I put her beneath, was the only marker for her lonely grave.

It was a gray dawn that morning, when I finally left the place of my slavery. I was pursued, and in the weeks that followed I did not think except to invent ways to lose my pursuers. Eventually I was able to do so, and I escaped to Paris.

Upon becoming a Musketeer, I belonged to the King, and in belonging to the King no other man could ever claim me. No other man would dare. So I found my freedom.

I did not forget Sienna in my escape. I came back to her when I could, maintaining her resting place, bringing her flowers, and watering the earth with tears.

I am not a poet, like my dear friend Ramon, and I cannot begin to express the loneliness and heartache I feel when I remember the girl who was my only family. My heart might as well have been buried with the child who would never taste freedom in mortality.

Did I believe in God? No, how could I? How could I believe in this Christianity, this Catholicism, when it was because of this religion that my parents abandoned my sister and me, leaving us to reap the punishment they had brought down upon us?

But I had to believe in Heaven. I couldn't believe that Sienna was simply gone…though I was a man of science.

I'm working on a theory…I doubt much will come of it or that I will ever try to explain it to others. But I believe that nothing is every truly lost, that things can change but not be lost. If nothing is ever lost, then that thing which religion calls a soul—the essence of a human life—must go someplace after death. I only hope it's someplace with lots of beauty and flowers, and golden afternoons, for Sienna's sake.

After a day spent at my sister's grave, quietly tending to the area and speaking aloud my latest adventures, I turned my horse back to Paris.

Back to my duties, back to being the studious and distracted Siroc. Three days would see me again at Headquarters, and Ramon would be disgusted by my 'moodiness.' He and the others would pester me until I was in tolerable spirits again, and I would allow my mind to be more fully occupied with my inventions and our adventures. But every moment the silent pain would be there, within my heart, reminding me of the smiles of a little girl, my Sienna.

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For those familiar with my fics, I'll be posting more of Snape and Rose soon. For those unfamiliar...enjoy this one!

**_-JB-_**


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